The sound of tearing silk echoed sharply and piercingly through the quiet hallway. The fabric gave way—and the right sleeve of the blouse now hung by a thin thread, exposing her shoulder blade.Alina froze. She didn’t even try to cover herself. She just watched as Zoya Pavlovna,
breathing heavily, gritted her teeth and crumpled the torn mother-of-pearl cufflink in her fist.— What are you staring at? — croaked her mother-in-law, her massive body blocking the way, her face bright red. — I said: Take it off! Everything! You came into this house with nothing but a supermarket bag!
Everything Deniska bought for you belongs to the family!Denis leaned against the doorframe of the living room, his shoulder against the frame, fingernails inspecting the situation with interest. Uncomfortable, but not intervening. Beside him sat Regina, young, radiant, with striking makeup.
She flipped through a magazine deliberately, but Alina saw her fingers clench in tension. Regina was enjoying every moment.— Denis? — Alina whispered barely audibly. — You’re just letting this happen?His gaze slid up, boredom and irritation mixed in his eyes.
— Al, basically your mother is right. — He shrugged. — We’re getting divorced. Regina’s expecting a child, she needs comfort. And you… you just annoy with your sour face. The blouse is expensive, a collector’s piece. Leave it. The cashmere coat too. Regina tried it on.
— Tried it on? — Alina’s heart raced. The coat, missing a week ago, supposedly at the dry cleaner.— Take it off, I said! — Zoya Pavlovna now tore at the fabric across her chest. — Take it off! Or I’ll call the police and say you’re a thief!Alina took a step back, her back against the cold metal door.
A smell of tobacco mixed with sweet vanilla—Zoya Pavlovna’s and Regina’s. Nausea rose in her.Three years. Three years waking at five every morning to prepare Denis’s lunchboxes perfectly. Three years silently enduring Zoya Pavlovna’s dusty inspections. Three years hiding her true identity,
out of love—not because of her father’s money.— Fine. — Slowly Alina unbuttoned the remaining buttons.The damaged blouse fell at Zoya Pavlovna’s feet. Then the designer shoes. Alina remained in simple jeans and a plain top. From her old, worn bag, she pulled out a keychain.
— The phone too! — shouted Zoya Pavlovna. — You still have to pay off the credit!Alina placed it wordlessly on the sideboard.— And the ring!The gold ring clattered across the parquet.— Everything? — Alina looked Denis directly in the eye.He lowered his gaze.— Go. Don’t look back.
Alina pulled out her old denim jacket from the bottom shelf and slipped on her worn sneakers. The door opened, the pitch-black October wind hit her face, wet and cold.— Not another breath in here! — screamed Zoya Pavlovna and slammed the door. The lock rattled.
In the stairwell, Alina stopped, hands trembling. Not from the cold—but from the realization that three years of her life had been wasted. From her inner pocket, she pulled out her small emergency phone. She dialed the number from memory.— Yes? — a deep, confident voice.
— Dad, it’s me.Three seconds of silence. Viktor Petrovich, the feared businessman, was quiet.— Daughter? Are you crying?— No, just cold. Dad, the “Feelings Without Money” experiment is over.— Did he hurt you?— They threw me out. In what I was wearing. They called me a beggar.
— Address.— At the house entrance. Dad…— What?— Denis’s company, Logistic-Star. The only major contract up north.— I know. I just kept it alive for you.— The boy stands on his own feet. He decides he can trample over me. Dad, check everything legally. Every invoice.
Penalties for every delay. And… the office building? Belongs to your business center?— At the Olymp. Discounted rent.— Cancel it. Market price from today.— Understood. Car in ten minutes. Arthur will pick you up.Alina hung up. Her knees gave way; she sat down. Only now did her body tremble—from anger,
disappointment, and realization. Three wasted years.Monday morning at the Logistic-Star office. No coffee, just Denis. Good mood: Regina happy, mother calmed, Alina… at fault herself.Reception was strangely quiet. Lenotschka nervously fumbled on the phone.
— Denis Andreyevich! — she jumped up. — There… in the meeting room…— Who? Tax office? — he grinned. — All clean.He threw open the door. Three men in expensive gray suits. Files piled in front of them.— Good morning, Denis Andreyevich. Armada Group, security audit of a contractor. Unannounced.
Denis felt a lump in his throat.— What audit? Exclusive contract! Legally…— Paragraph 4.2: Right to inspect at any time. First two hours: mileage false, fuel receipts forged, deliveries to Norilsk covered up.— A mistake… — Denis whispered. — I’ll call Viktor Petrovich…
— Viktor Petrovich does not deal with fraudsters. Contract terminated. Penalties: 120 million rubles. Three banking days deadline.— What?! — Denis sank into his chair.— Moreover, — second auditor — the business center discount removed. Recalculation for the last three years.
Denis’s phone vibrated incessantly. Zoya Pavlovna was calling.— Mom… — he croaked. — I can’t do anything.— Can’t do anything?! You’re the director! Call your partners!— Partners… — the auditors looked disdainfully. — They’ve ruined us.
A week later: signing at the notary. Denis arrived in an economy taxi. His car sold to cover salaries. Rumpled, unshaven, exhausted.Alina entered. No longer the woman he knew. Ivory pantsuit, luxurious waves in her hair, presence suggesting ownership of the world. Behind her, Viktor Petrovich.
— Dad?! — Denis whispered. — You know each other?— Sit, Alina Viktorovna.— Alina… Viktorovna? — The puzzle fell into place. Romanowa. Armada.— You… — he whispered. — You’re Armada’s daughter?— Controlling stake of my shares. For my 18th birthday. Wanted a normal life. Family.
— Why did you stay silent?! — shouted Denis. — We could have…— Could have what? Loved me more? Respected me more? Or used me for resources, as you are now?— Al, sorry… — he slumped into the chair. — We’re bankrupt. Apartment seized, vacation home gone.
— Give back the blouse. And the shoes.— Probably… in the trash…— Your world collapsed when you judged people by their clothes. Sign.She pushed the papers. Waiver of claims. She settled the debts personally.Denis’s hope flickered.— You forgive?
— I don’t forgive. I buy my freedom. Never again them. Zero. No business, no apartment. From scratch. Like back then.Denis, trembling: pen. Signature.Alina stood.— Let’s go, Dad.At the exit, Denis reached for her hand. She pulled it back in disgust.
— Feelings? Three years… Lies?— On my side, yes. On yours, only convenience. Goodbye.Six months later:Zoya Pavlovna at the reception, working at a student dorm. Low pay, small room. TV: Alina Romanowa, director of “Second Chance,” opens a women’s center.
Denis delivers food. Yellow box huge on his back.— Seen? — Mom nodded.— Seen.— And the coat… Cashmere. Beautiful fabric, shame it was thrown away.Denis put the jacket down.— It’s not about the coat, Mom. It’s about what’s inside.Zoya Pavlovna was already not listening, energetically talking on the phone.